Chapter 6 Nina
Nina
By the time the EMTs arrived, Lincoln was wincing, eyes flickering beneath half-closed lids.
His hand latched onto mine before I could step away for their assessment.
So they worked around me, checking his pupils, securing his neck, putting an oxygen mask on him.
His hand rested loosely in mine, fingers clammy and shaky.
He’d squeezed as I moved away when he was being loaded onto a stretcher.
In the ambulance, he drifted in and out, mumbling incoherently. Once at the hospital, he was awake but disoriented, holding on to my hand for dear life.
The paramedic leaned down to his ear. “Sir, you’re at MSC Hospital. We need you to let go to proceed with testing.”
His blue eyes snapped to mine, glassy with alarm.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
His blond hair matted with rain and blood, and for once, there was no trace of those damn dimples, just lines of terror at the edge of his lips and distress pooling in his indigo gaze. My mom’s eyes had been a lighter blue. Was she afraid? Conscious?
“You’re going to be okay, let them help you.”
Part of me wanted to leave, but the part of me that hoped my mom had someone to soothe her chose to reassure Lincoln, so I caressed the back of his palm with my thumb.
Lincoln held my gaze for a few more seconds, then, with a faint nod, released my hand.
I sat on a hard plastic chair in the ER waiting area, shivering under the cold blast of the vents.
The scent of antiseptic burned the back of my throat as it all replayed in my head.
Flashlights cutting through the rain. Being pulled backward.
His body slamming to the ground. I rubbed my hands against my jeans for warmth, red staining the denim across my thigh.
Blood. His blood, sticky and dark, caked under my fingernails.
I dropped my tote, and when it smacked linoleum, the thunk echoed in my ears bringing back the memory of Lincoln’s head hitting the asphalt, eyes rolling into unconsciousness while I screamed his name.
Why did I even care? I shouldn’t.
The morose whispers between a doctor and a nurse broke my gaze away from the blood clinging to my clothes.
The hushed reassurances took me to a different waiting room, different accident.
Curled up between Lynnie and Aunt Maddie.
My parents were picking up my birthday cake, then a gray-haired doctor spoke with Aunt Maddie, using a cold, clinical tone.
Unable to resuscitate. Next of kin. Care for the child. Me.
I pinched my thighs until the memory faded.
A nurse approached me, strawberry-blonde hair wrapped in a high bun, holding a clipboard to her chest. “You came in with Lincoln Carter. Is that right?”
I bobbed my head in an awkward nod, my mouth too dry.
“We’ve been unable to reach his emergency contact. Do you know someone else I can call?”
Lincoln and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms for me to know. Lincoln’s dad, with his beer gut and light-brown hair peppered with white, flashed in my mind. So did the screaming matches they’d had across the yard. The only person who was close to him then and now was—
“His emergency contact—” I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the impatience tightening her face. “Is it Vincent Trigg?”
She hesitated, unsure whether to confirm or not. “Yes.”
“That’s my …. That’s my cousin. He’s out of town.” I paused again, heart stuttering. “There’s no one else. I don’t think. I’m not sure. What about his phone?”
She clicked her tongue. “No phone was retrieved. It’s likely it was lost or broken.”
“Mr. Carter is currently …” She looked around the room. “I can’t share too much of his condition, but he shouldn’t be alone. He woke up and asked for you.”
I hesitated, doubting Lincoln would mention me for anything other than to blame me.
As if I’d invited him to follow me from Reality Bites.
I almost shook my head and opened my mouth to say no.
It wasn’t right, though. I thought of my mom and dad passing away without anyone they knew.
I wasn’t Lincoln, nor did I want to be. I wouldn’t abandon anyone alone and hurt in a hospital.
Lincoln’s nastiness wouldn’t turn me into that person.
When I nodded, she wasted no time walking swiftly through the halls of the hospital, squeaky shoes making it easy to find her when I missed one turn or another.
“Excuse me. If you cannot contact my cousin, what will happen to Lincoln?”
She let out an annoyed huff and hurried her pace until she finally opened the door to Lincoln’s room.
The light scent of lavender covered the cleaning agent.
Soft beeping of monitors filled the small space.
Lincoln lay on the bed, looking pale, with a dark line of bruising visible along his temple, and a bandage wrapped around his head, bright-red spots marring its cleanliness.
An IV snaked out of his arm was taped down with clear medical strips.
This fragile appearance did not belong to a person capable of his level of cruelty.
He squinted up at us, blinking with exhaustion. When his gaze landed on me, relief coated his features instantly. “Hey …,” he rasped, his voice rough and low. His lips curved into a small tired smile. “You came. I kept telling them you’d come, all they needed to do was get you.”
The nurse scurried away, murmuring she’d get the doctor for us.
Lincoln stretched his hand out to me, wincing when sitting up tugged at his IV.
He opened and closed his palm, urging me to take it, and furrowed his brow when I didn’t move right away.
Dazed by his attitude, I went to him, and his shoulders relaxed when our hands met.
He intertwined our fingers, and I watched, mesmerized.
Unable to remember the last time I’d been touched with such softness, I closed my eyes—half in surrender, half in self-defense.
Especially as his bright-blue eyes reminded me of him staring at me unfazed when I stumbled through my presentation.
“I’m so sorry, I know this is bad, but …” His smiled wavered, lips quivering, and he stared at our laced fingers. Fear was a foreign expression from Lincoln. “Please, what’s your name again?” he asked, his voice cracking.
The words sliced right through me, sharp and unexpected. My name. He didn’t remember my name.
His eyes met mine, and the blue lightened. “I know you’re important to me.” He paused, as if waiting for reassurance. “That’s why you were there, right? Your eyes, I know them from before passing out, but also from—something I can’t remember.”
“Lincoln, I’m—” I searched for the right words to explain, but none would come out. I didn’t want to harm him; I just wanted to leave.
As he brushed my knuckles with his thumb, I placed my other hand on top of his to stop him.
Mistaking it for affection, he gingerly lifted my hand to his lips.
His breath warmed my knuckles, then the door opened without so much as a knock.
I rushed to put distance between us, but Lincoln tightened his hold on me.
A man in a white coat approached the empty chair on the other side of Lincoln’s bed. He was young, probably a resident, with dark hair weirdly spiked at the top of his head, and wrinkled scrubs. He eyed a yellow stack of Post-it Notes, then looked to Lincoln.
“Hello, Mr. Carter. Hello, Ms …?” The doctor paused, looking at me.
“Reyes.” I made quick eye contact with Lincoln and added, “Nina Reyes.”
Lincoln’s lips move slowly, clinging to the distinct shape of each of the four letters in my name.
His tongue darted out, moist shining on the fleshiest part of his bottom lip, soundlessly learning by heart every curve in my name.
My pulse ticked up at the tender intensity his gaze held me with.
I’d only seen this look on him one other time—the day I met him.
“My name is Dr. Kwan,” he said, focusing on Lincoln, “and I am the specialist on call. Lincoln, Nina doesn’t appear to be family and isn’t listed as an emergency contact. I need to make sure it’s okay that I discuss your prognosis with her here.”
Lincoln’s brows knitted tightly before he nodded. “Of course, it’s okay. Nina and I are together.” He squeezed my hand timidly as he said it.
“Nina and I are together.” The words echoed in my head. Shit. He thought I was his girlfriend. My fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, nails biting into cotton. Part of me wanted to correct him. The other part—the louder part—stayed silent, burning to know how he’d come up with this.
The doctor needed to know, though. “Lincoln, you didn’t remember my name. We met when we were seventeen.” I shared more for the doctor than for Lincoln. “Do you remember anything?”
Lincoln gave it a squeeze, coaxing me to meet his eyes.
“Nina,” he repeated my name softly again.
“That’s just so beautiful, babe. But no, I’m sorry.
I don’t remember us meeting, just talking to Vinny about how you were going to move in with his family, and why.
I don’t remember it ever happening.” He refused to let go of my hand.
“Lincoln,” the doctor interrupted, “we haven’t had an opportunity to talk about your injury.
” He paused, ensuring he had Lincoln’s attention.
“Good news is you’re awake and stable. CT scan was reassuring—no bleeding, no swelling.
There is a mild traumatic brain injury, and it’s presenting some cognitive symptoms.”
My chest tightened as answers clicked into place, but it was Lincoln who spoke. “What cognitive symptoms?”
Dr. Kwan glanced down at his scribbles. “You’re experiencing some short-term confusion. That means having trouble recalling events and personal memories before the accident. Your procedural memory is untouched. So getting dressed, cooking, or doing your job’ll come naturally.”
Lincoln cleared his throat next to me. “So … I just forgot shit?”